


under that too-bright sun

by zealotarchaeologist



Category: SOMA (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, HAPPY FEMSLASH FEBRUARY THERE'S MORE WHERE THIS CAME FROM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reality and the perception thereof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under that too-bright sun

Imogen wakes up alone. The warm sunlight spilling in through the window tells her it’s late in the morning. Her first impulse, every day, is to evaluate her body immediately. To make sure everything’s still working, still real. _What do you see, hear, feel?_ The air is slightly cool on her skin and she pulls up the pale blue sheets a little. The bed isn’t messy—it must have been a good night, no nightmares for anyone.

Catherine is conspicuously absent from the other side of the bed, but that’s not unusual. She wakes up as if on a timer, though she’ll sometimes stay in bed if it’s a sunny day like this one.

The two Catherines seem to live on an internal clock that is theirs alone, trading places on a schedule that only they can sense. Never interrupting each other, just moving seamlessly from one life to the next. On less good days, Imogen finds herself wondering which one will be waiting for her in the morning.

She stretches out in bed, enjoying the space for a moment. The sun filtered across the sheets is beautiful. A little too much so, precisely crafted like a sculpture. Designed to be beautiful for her, existing only to be seen by her. _This is all for you._ She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands. The sun-warmed wood floor on her feet feels real.

Thinking too much about it will only put her in a bad mood, so she pads downstairs, still in her shorts and tank top. In the kitchen, Catherine is standing over the stove, focusing meticulously on something. Probably something fried, from the smell. It reminds Imogen of their other selves, their real selves, of old conversations about what food they missed from home and how you tiao are one of the only things Catherine ever learned how to cook for herself.

Just like that, Imogen can feel her throat tighten with a longing—whether for the real world or just to be her real self, she doesn’t know. She tries to focus, like she’s supposed to, tries to concentrate on her sensations. She can see the scene in front of her, smell the food, hear her girlfriend talking out loud to herself, a habit that’s only gotten worse now that there’s two of her. She can perceive it. It’s real. It has to be real.

“I didn’t hear you come down.”

Catherine turns to her smiling so genuinely that it breaks the spell for a moment.

At least one of them got what she wants. For all the work she does, Catherine—and today it’s the newer Catherine in her home—seems truly happy.

The earlier Catherine is a little more mature, a little more diplomatic as a result of her year spent trying to get the ARK running smoothly. As for the more recent addition, whatever she experienced down there made her more open with her emotions, especially towards other people. The difference is barely there, the two of them so similar that they have to make a conscious effort to dress differently so as not to confuse people, but Imogen can tell them apart easily.

“I just did.”

What she needs now is something grounding. So she steps in close, brackets Catherine against the counter. The solid weight of her body feels real. Catherine makes a content little hum at the affection and turns back to the food. Her hair falls forward, giving Imogen the opportunity to kiss the back of her neck and distract her. It won’t burn, of course. Going through the motions of cooking isn’t even necessary. Nor is eating at all. But most people like to. It makes things seem more normal. The ability to eat at all is relatively new and unrefined, but it’s one less thing to feel homesick for.

They eat from one plate and take turns dipping the donuts in soy milk. The sensation of eating, of feeling full isn’t quite right yet, and Catherine says the taste is just a little off. But they’re good all the same. Just like everything else here.

It’s not like she doesn’t appreciate what Catherine’s trying to do, playing house and building the life they couldn’t have. She wishes it came easier to her. She can see the world, perceive it in every way, feel Catherine’s hand in her own as many times as she needs to, but she can’t seem to stop watching for the edges where it falls apart. Even as all her senses are telling her it’s real, she knows the truth. Sometimes she wants to forget it.

 

 

“I’m staying home today.” Imogen says when they’re done with breakfast, perched on the counter as Catherine puts away her dishes. Immediately she pauses, frowns the way she always does when she’s worried. “You sure? Are you feeling well?”

Imogen shakes her head. “I’m fine, just want some time alone. There’s plenty of people to ask if you need mechanical help.”

For once, Catherine lets it drop. She’s been better about that lately. “Yeah, but none quite as pretty.”

“Catherine Chun, are you _flirting_ with me?”

“Is it working?” She brings her hands up to rest on Imogen’s shoulders as if they were dancing. That bright-eyed look is real.

The way that Imogen wants to try, for her sake, is real.

“Well, you did wake up in my bed this morning.”

“So I’m doing something right.”

“One or two things.”

Imogen intends to kiss her just once, but Catherine leans up to meet her and in a moment they get carried away. It’s not as if they lack for practice. Yet the physicality of it is nice, the feeling of Catherine’s lips on hers and her hands in her hair. She can close her eyes and allow her imagined body to take charge.

“Maybe I should stay with you.” Catherine gives her one last look, plenty of time for her to change her mind.

But Reed stands firm, shakes her head a little. “Better get going. She probably needs some rest.”

Catherine wavers a moment longer. Not long ago, she would have gone anxious in that almost possessive way, insisted on hovering around her all day, constantly checking to make sure it wasn’t something she did wrong.

That was the cause of their first fight (at least up here. Imogen suspects—well, there’s no way of knowing.) About how Catherine being clingy stops being cute at a certain point, and Imogen, she. Really needs her space. Especially now.

But one of the few benefits of their living situation is the time and space to work things out. Down on Pathos they had neither. The long days of uncertainty, the constant worries about survival still weigh on her (and most everyone else too, to some extent) but at least they’re no longer urgent. Here, now, there’s no bigger problems to worry about. She doesn’t have to worry any time they fight that those might be the last words they say to each other—

The sound of the door snaps her out of her thoughts as Catherine steps out into the artificial light.

“Hey, Catherine?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

She smiles, warm and real. “Love you too.”

 

 

Having all the free time in the world poses the problem of finding a way to fill it. Usually she works alongside Catherine, because while the woman may be a genius at what she does, she barely knows the first thing about how her boxed-up paradise works in the physical space. It’s not required of her, though, not the same as having a job. And it’s certainly not enough to constitute a purpose.

Most of the time, Imogen busies herself with building things. That’s what always fascinated her: how the physical intricacies of the machines translated to what they did. Take a thing apart and put it back together enough times and you can understand it. It’s what she tries to do with her world. Take the bits and pieces, sort them into functional and not, and maybe someday come up with something that will satisfy her.

There was a time when she wanted to do that to Catherine, too. Like if she could just pick her brain apart and understand her, things would be better. And she’s sure that Catherine felt the same. Maybe still does, knowing her.

But things are different, here and now. In part because she doesn’t need to _try_ to understand Catherine anymore—this whole place is a manifestation of her. The bad as much as the good.

If she isn’t with the machinery, she needs to move. Running, mostly, for hours and hours. So that’s what she does today, laces up her shoes and heads out onto the mostly empty street. Their world is growing, she doesn’t have to resort to taking laps around the park anymore.

When she stretches, the burn in her legs feels real. The wind on her face feels real. There’s even the weird urge to take a shower afterwards despite her no longer truly having a body.

So she runs. And runs, and runs, until her head is quiet and her body is straining with the imagined effort. She collapses blissfully onto the nearest bench, still breathing heavy. Knees up, she lays on her back and covers her eyes, blocking out the bright synthetic sun.

For all that Imogen struggles with…all of this, she’s always grateful. How many days were they down there, without the sun? And now the warm light falls against her just the way she likes it. Just the way Catherine likes to see it.

She knows it without being told that Catherine was thinking of her. And she can imagine her, leaned over her work, face scrunched up like she always does, trying to make it perfect and getting distracted by her thought. And she thinks about their first kiss and wonders how long before that Catherine was planning this with her in mind. _All for you._

The thought doesn’t bother her as much as it once might have.


End file.
